


Slumber

by lostsoul512



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: M/M, Mild Smut, an appropriate amount of death knight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 01:55:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11910816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostsoul512/pseuds/lostsoul512
Summary: Death knights aren’t usually interested in needing anyone- it’s a loss of control in its own right, dependency- but Koltira has never been under the illusion that he doesn’t need Thassarian.





	Slumber

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zaelish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaelish/gifts).



> Written for the lovely Zaelish on tumblr, who presented the head canon upon which this story is based, along with a beautiful drawing which can be found in the link at the end of this story~

It's cold as a tomb  
And it's dark in your room  
When I sneak to your bed  
To pour salt in your wounds

...

Death knights don’t need to sleep, not really, but Koltira has gotten damn good at it.

It was an accident at first, he thinks- an accidental blessing that came in the form of sudden and total unconsciousness, the embrace of a darkness thick enough to shroud him from all of the pain and all of the suffering to which he’s suddenly found himself subjected.

In the Scourge, death knights were killed for falling asleep- or at least killed more properly than previously. Sleeping was a weakness, and there was no weakness in the armies of the Lich King- he was an unstoppable, invincible force of unrelenting control, right up until he died- or at least died more properly than previously.

The death knights haven’t been a part of the Scourge for years, but sometimes when his body aches in a way he hadn’t even fathomed to be possible anymore, Koltira almost catches himself longing for it- the Lich King may have been the half-living personification of malice, but the Banshee Queen is twice as sadistic.

Undercity is dark all the time so it’s impossible to tell time or if it’s even passing at all. The air is stale and thick with the putrid scent of atrophy and decay, and there is an unsettling sense of dread that stirs like a draft, that spreads like a plague and infects him fully. Sylvanas is merciless- unstoppable, invincible, unrelenting- a lesson he learns for himself all too quickly.

Death knights don’t feel, not really, but it’s hard not to feel the steel tip of a dagger driven in between his ribs.

Sylvanas is merciless, and she meant it when she said she’d bleed the last of his humanity from him. She keeps him in a cage, chained and beaten like an animal, and he can't help thinking that this loss of control surpasses anything that the Lich King could have done, because at least then he had the illusion of freedom, a mindless servitude masquerading as liberation.

Koltira has traded one prison for another, and he’s starting to believe there’s no such thing as liberation, not really.

The Banshee Queen visits him often, at first, and with each appearance she leaves behind a new mark to remind him of his supposed crimes. Some of them fade; others leave scars that lacerate across his pallid flesh faster than the necrotic energies keeping him trapped in eternal half-life can manage to heal him.

Death knights don’t feel pain, not really, but they’ve retained enough of their sensory functions to feel it sometimes, when it’s particularly intense- it’s a necessity for any soldier to know when enough is enough, even an undead one, and death knights were bred to be the most capable soldiers in Azeroth.

Koltira has come to understand pain far better than anyone ought to, and when it becomes too much to bear, he succumbs to the nothingness of sleep.

When he sleeps, he dreams, hands and lips and teeth upon him, rough and insistent but never hurting. He dreams of softly whispered words, a low reverberation that he can feel against his skin, a trail of needy kisses that leads from his mouth to his collarbone over each ridge of his ribs.

Death knights aren’t usually interested in needing anyone- it’s a loss of control in its own right, dependency- but Koltira has never been under the illusion that he doesn’t need Thassarian.

In Thassarian’s absence, he clings to the dreams, the memories, the ghosts of his touches and his kisses and his murmured vows of eternity unwavering. When he slips away into the painless oblivion of slumber, he can almost feel him there, and, at least for a little while, the agony subsides.

Waking up alone has never been so damn difficult.

…

Death knights don't need to sleep, not really, but Koltira has gotten damn good at it.

It was an accident, at first, but it’s not an accident anymore- he’s learned how to force it upon himself now, how to will himself into unconsciousness and the comfort of his dreams because it's the only way to escape the nightmare of his reality.

He’s on the edge of sleep when he picks up on the telling sound of battle, growing steadily closer by the second- the familiar clash of steel blades, the reverberating hum that could only belong to the unnatural necrotic magic, and-

Death knights have impeccable hearing- must have something to do with being created as the perfect eternal soldier- but he doesn't need it to recognize the voice that’s haunted his every dream. When Thassarian rounds the corner, Koltira sees nothing else- nothing else exists, nothing else matters. Thassarian pauses, just for a moment, and their eyes lock, just for a moment, and for the first time in months he doesn't need to fall asleep for everything else to fade away because Thassarian is all there is.

The human has a few others with him, but Koltira doesn't care, doesn't even notice them hovering around the outside of his prison. They’ve come to rescue him- about fucking time- and take him back home to Acherus.

He wants to tell them that Acherus isn't home- Thass is home- but he doesn't think he’s in the position to say much of anything and honestly he’s just ecstatic to be out of that damned cage.

Thassarian wastes no time closing the distance between them, and Koltira wastes no time collapsing against his chest. Thassarian wraps his arms around him tightly, completely, and it’s just as safe as he remembers, and death knights don't really feel warmth but he thinks he can feel this sort, and he isn't sure of very much but he knows that he’s never going to be away from him for another moment even if it kills him all over again.

…

Death knights don't need to sleep, not really, but Koltira has gotten damn good at it.

It’s an accident, usually- one moment Thassarian is running his fingers through his hair and the next his eyelids are drifting and he’s out, curled against the human’s side.

The first few days back are the hardest. He’s edgy and paranoid; he doesn't even try to sleep, doesn't even let himself blink, because he’s terrified that he’ll open his eyes just to find out everything was some terrible nightmare and he’s still trapped in Undercity.

Thassarian must be able to sense this, because he never strays more than a few steps from his side. There’s another war to fight, he guesses, but he doesn't care and neither does Thass- the worst war they ever faced was the one against themselves in the absence of each other, and maybe that makes him selfish but he doesn't care about that either.

But days turn into weeks, and the fear begins to fade even if the scars still linger. The first time Thassarian saw them- really saw them, his fingertips tracing over them one after the other, Koltira was sure he was going to snap. He could feel the tremors that shook through him, could see the gleam of bloodlust in his icy blue eyes- they always shone brightest when loss of control was imminent, a dead giveaway.

Koltira had assured him that they weren't as bad as they looked. It was a lie, and they both knew it, but Thassarian hadn't seemed particularly inclined to say so.

Instead, he’d taken him by the wrist and pulled him to the bed- Koltira didn't even complain at being dragged after him, because at least he could see him and be certain he was there- and he crawled over him and he brushed his lips against them one by one, a trail of needy kisses that led from his mouth to his collarbone over each ridge of his ribs.

Death knights aren't particularly interested in needing anyone- it’s a loss of control in its own way, dependency- but Koltira has never been under the illusion that he doesn’t need Thassarian. He used to think it must be wrong to love the person that had destroyed him, but he realized at some point that Thassarian has saved him enough times by now to erase the fact that he killed him in the first place.

He tells him so, one night, a hushed voice meant only for the human to hear- “I need you”. He’s got his head against his shoulder and an arm across his chest, fingers trailing lazily over the length of Thass’ own scar, a long gash that stretches from the base of his ribcage to his left hip. He says it matter-of-factly, because it is a fact.

“I know,” Thassarian replies, and he cranes his neck so he can press a kiss to the elf’s forehead. “I need you too.”

He knows it too, but instead of saying so he simply shifts himself so he's atop the human’s broad chest, arching forward with a hand on either side of him and a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Again?” Thassarian asks, and he’s smirking too, and his hand has already found its way to Koltira’s hip.

The blonde hitches his shoulder in a shrug. “What’s the point of unrelenting stamina if we aren't using it to the best of our advantage?”

“I think it’s meant for combat,” Thass points out, but Koltira ignores him, replies with a kiss instead, slow and lingering- it’s been weeks since he’s been back, but it never feels like he’s kissed him enough to make up for all the months he couldn't.

“Fine,” he drawls, rolling his eyes and settling back down against him, resting his head against his chest instead. There's no heartbeat, but he can feel Thassarian’s hands upon him, clutching to him, keeping him in place, and he’s finally starting to feel whole again, like maybe all the fractured fragments of himself could be pieced back together after all.

“I love you,” he mumbles, pressing in closer so there’s no space left between them- death knights don't feel much, but he feels more than hears the vibrations of Thassarian’s reciprocation. He feels the fingers working their way through his hair, and he feels every single place their bodies meet, and he feels an overwhelming sense of relief and a certainty that so long as they're together there's nothing they can't overcome.

They lay in silence for a while, but neither of them seem to mind, and Koltira can feel the dissipation of his ever present fear, leaving something like peace in its place. Death knights don't need to sleep, not really, but Koltira has gotten damn good at it, and he can feel it tugging at him now- only this time, he isn't trying to escape anything, and he isn't afraid, not even a little, and when he wakes up he won't be alone because Thassarian is here and he’s never going to let him go again.

**Author's Note:**

> https://zaelish.tumblr.com/post/148347638689/yeah-death-knights-dont-need-sleep-but-what-if


End file.
